Page 99 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

Yanking her forward again, the rope pulled her toward the rear of the ship. She bumped into the hull, and the rope towed her upward, lifting the upper half of her body from the water.

Her gaze followed the cord’s path, but it didn’t lead to the railing. It led to the open window of the captain’s cabin. Squinting her eyes, she tried to see the face above her, but the morning sun’s glare off the water blinded her.

The next jerk raised her out of the water completely, and she smacked into the stern with a grunt. Her body throbbed, and the added pain of her ravaged skin dragging up the side of the ship caused her to scream out.

Voices echoed from above.

“I don’t care what he said, I want to see her body.”

It was Mr. Evans!

Dangling halfway to the window, Alana flattened herself against the ship and sank her teeth into her lip, biting back her shrieks as blood filled her mouth.

If Mr. Evans discovered her hanging from the side, he’d ensure both she and Captain Shaw were killed.

The rope gave another tug, then ripped her upward, hauling her through the open window. She collapsed onto the floorboards in a pile of wet clothing, blood, and rope, and a hand immediately clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.

“Did you hear that?” Mr. Evans asked.

“Must have been a fish,” the other man replied, his voice disinterested. “Are we finished? I’d like to have breakfast before Wickes eats all the food again.”

“I’ll meet you in the galley in a few moments.” Mr. Evans dismissed the other man.

“Don’t speak,” Mr. Hayward whispered, his arms wrapped around Alana.

After five minutes, Mr. Evans’ footsteps moved from the stern, heading toward the center of the ship.

“I’m going to release your mouth. Will you stay quiet?”

She nodded her head, her eyes wide.

Removing his hand, Mr. Hayward produced a knife, cutting through the rope binding Alana’s arms. The hemp broke, falling to the floor. Her hands flew to her throat, touching the wound on her neck.

“He had to cut you,” Mr. Hayward murmured, dropping the rope pieces out the window and pulling the glass closed. He turned and held out a handkerchief. “They wouldn’t have believed him if he didn’t show them your blood.”

“Why?” she asked, pressing the cloth to her throat.

Mr. Hayward shrugged. “Don’t know the captain’s mind.”

“I meant, why did you help him?”

He studied her for a long moment. “He’s my captain.”

“But you risked your life.”

“Captain says you’re worth saving.” Mr. Hayward’s mouth pulled into a half-smile, and he gestured to her trunk, which had been moved in front of the armoire.

“Change your clothing. You’re quite,”—he paused, searching for the correct word—“indecent at the moment. Then I’ll see to your wounds. You’re lucky the captain intervened when he did. Most men don’t survive a keelhaul.”

“I’m not most men.” She forced an exhausted grin.

“That is true, Mrs. Dubois.” He touched his hand to his forehead, wincing as he moved, and she wondered what injury had occurred to cause him that amount of pain. “I’ll return in a bit with some food and bandages.”

“Mr. Hayward?”

He stopped, his hand resting on the door handle.

“Yes?” he asked without turning around.